


It Was About Being You

by writingonpostcards



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Anchors, Angst and Feels, Getting Together, M/M, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 21:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11090715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingonpostcards/pseuds/writingonpostcards
Summary: Derek goes missing and when Stiles finds him, he's without his memories.He can’t let Derek out of his sight though. Not now that he’s right there in front of Stiles, within touching distance, for the first time in almost a week. “Derek, please, just let me get you to the loft at least.”“No.”“What do you mean, ‘no’?”“I’ll walk myself into town.”“Sure. But you’re going the wrong way.”Derek furrows his brow and looks along the road. “I suppose… I don’t know which way to go.” His voice is small. “I can’t remember.”





	It Was About Being You

“Derek? Derek! Hey! Where have you been?” Stiles puts the handbrake on and jumps out of his jeep, leaving it idling. “We’ve been looking for you for days! Scott’s been going crazy and I’ve been-” Stiles stops himself before he admits how he’s been taking Derek’s absence, aware it will be telling of how much he cares for the other man.

Derek looks like he could use someone’s care though. He’s dead on his feet - his bare feet - and only wearing a threadbare pair of jeans. The dark smudges under his eyes worry at Stiles’ mind, as does the mud on Derek’s hands and up his forearms.

“Who’s Derek?”

Stiles blinks. Derek is known for his dry humour but by his standards that’s just distasteful.

“Uh, you’re Derek, Derek. Come on.” Stiles says with some impatience. He’s tired as well, hasn’t slept more than 3 hours the last few nights.

Derek just shakes his head at Stiles before turning and continuing to walk along the road.

“Wait, hold up!” The jeep is still running and if Stiles’ leaves it like that for more than three minutes it’s going to kill his engine. He can’t let Derek out of his sight though. Not now that he’s right there in front of Stiles, within touching distance, for the first time in almost a week. “Derek, please, just let me get you to the loft at least.”

Derek stops and turns to face Stiles.

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I’ll walk myself into town.”

“Sure. But you’re going the wrong way.” Stiles is starting to worry now. New worry on top of his old ‘Derek is missing’ worry.

Derek furrows his brow and looks along the road. “I suppose… I don’t know which way to go.” His voice is small. “I can’t remember.”

“Please.” Stiles near pleads. “I can take you home.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek starts, and he does look it, with an intensity to his apology Stiles has only ever seen once before, with Boyd. Seeing it directed toward him at this moment is jarring. “I don’t know who you are.”

Stiles wants to double over. He doesn’t.

“I don’t… I think I don’t know who I am.”

Stiles has to fight not to cry. He hates seeing Derek so vulnerable, especially when it’s not of his own volition.

“You’re Derek. And I’m Stiles.” Stiles steps toward Derek the way one approaches a stray on a sidewalk. Slow. Non-threatening. Aware they might run away with the smallest provocation. “We’re friends.”

Stiles doesn’t imagine the look of hope on Derek’s face, but it’s still hidden behind apprehension. And fear.

“Here.” He pulls out his phone and brings up a photo. The two of them on Derek’s couch in his loft, playing a card game on the sofa cushion between them. Derek is smiling at Stiles and Stiles is smiling and Derek. It’s the photo Stiles has been looking at each night instead of sleeping.

Derek reaches for the phone but drops his hand at the last minute. Stiles notices then that they’re purple and shaking. Cold.

“Derek, please. You’re freezing.” Derek crosses his arms, shoving hands beneath his armpits almost defensively. “I have a spare jacket in my car. I’ll turn the heating up all the way. Just please, please, let me take you home.”

Stiles takes one last step forward, worried another will push Derek that bit too far. He tries to reassure with his body language, but how can you seem trustworthy and honest when all you’re feeling is anxious tension and worry? How can you smile when all you want to do is cry? How can you give space when all you want to do is eliminate it?

The moment stretches. Derek stares at Stiles.

Stiles’ next breath comes in shaky and he knows he has to get out of there now, before he starts sobbing in front of a Derek who no longer knows who he is, before his jeep dies and he _can’t_ , before he has to admit to himself that losing Derek again and in this fucking horrid way is going to break something. But then Derek takes his own step. Towards Stiles.

“Okay.” Derek says. “Okay, Stiles.”

-

“Don’t come over, alright?” Stiles pleads to Scott. “And keep the others away too. Please. He’s okay, I swear, but just… no people.”

“For how long?” Scott asks.

“I-” Stiles’ voice breaks. He powers on before Scott can say anything. “I’m not sure. Just give me time.”

Stiles hangs up, then gets into the jeep.

Derek’s in an old hoodie of Stiles’. It’s pathetically thin from age, but better than nothing.

Whatever memories Derek has lost, had taken from him, or suppressed, he knows enough to have put his seatbelt on already, so Stiles gets the jeep moving and starts the heating.

“Thank you.” Derek says; softly and without effort.

Stiles can’t speak. The ease of acknowledgement is _not_ Derek.

He nods, then focuses on driving and keeping the wheel steady though his hands shake.

Derek is quiet on the drive, and Stiles tries not to stare at him like he wants. To reassure himself over and over that Derek is alive and breathing and back with him. He doesn’t want to make Derek more uncomfortable than he already is, a state apparent to Stiles from Derek’s nervous habit of tracing his thumb in a circle over his palm.

Seems some things go deeper than memory. The question is, what things? If Derek doesn’t know he’s a werewolf, there’s going to be one very frustrating conversation in Stiles’ future, and he’ll need outside help, which he wants to avoid for as long as possible.

First step though, reacquaint Derek with his apartment. With a shower and a warm bed and his own clothes and enough food that he’ll feel it for hours afterwards. That’s Stiles’ plan.

When Stiles parks in front of Derek’s loft, it seems to take Derek a moment to realise they’ve reached their destination.

“Is this where I live? The loft?” It’s unsure, like perhaps he heard Stiles wrong earlier.

“Yeah.”

Derek undoes his seatbelt then gets out of the car.

Stiles turns off the engine and takes a deep breath, trying to find calm in the action, before joining Derek on the sidewalk.

“Want to go in?”

“It looks lonely,” Derek states, his gaze flitting from window to window.

Stiles tries to see the building from an outsider’s perspective. It’s nothing grand. Basic red brick a few stories tall, cement wraparound balconies, a few of which have been adorned with plants. He’s always found the simplicity a comfort. There’s nowhere to hide.

He can see the loneliness though. In the twilight, the few crumbling bricks are more obvious, and there are only 4 lights on in the building.

“Let’s get inside. It’ll be less lonely with us in it.”

Stiles waits until Derek’s finished looking, then leads them through the front door, quickly past the mail boxes, and up the few flights of stairs until they’re standing outside Derek’s massive sliding loft door.

Derek doesn’t look any more at ease, obviously unable to pick this place out from whatever memories he has left, so Stiles takes it upon himself to slide open the door.

“I don’t lock it?” Derek asked, sounding shocked.

“You don’t really need too,” Stiles says with a shrug, not wanting to get into why that is.

Derek’s face scrunches in confusion, but he walks in when Stiles gestures to the doorway.

Derek takes the stairs slowly. When he’s at the bottom, he stops and looks around.

If Derek thought the outside of the building looked lonely, Stiles doesn’t imagine his opinion would change seeing the inside of his loft.

It’s bare and Stiles has always thought so.

The large wooden table in front of the loft window is directly ahead of Derek; empty. Its’ chairs are over by the wall, scattered around the loft’s single couch, a remainder from the last time the pack was together here, maps and books and take away containers crowded on the now bare coffee table.

Then there’s Derek’s bed. Perfectly made.

“Is this all of my stuff?”

“Kitchen and bathroom are upstairs. Study too.”

Derek nods.

“I know it’s not a lot, but you were-” Stiles would love to say ‘happy’, but he can’t lie to Derek when he’s like this. “It was enough for you.”

Survival has always been Derek’s top priority. Survival and independence.

“I live alone?”

“Yeah.”

“We don’t live together?”

Stiles has no idea where that came from. “Nah.”

Derek gestures to Stiles. “That photo, though. On your phone.”

“What about it?”

Derek looks to the couch where the photo was taken.

“I just spend a lot of time here,” Stiles tries to explain.

Derek hums. “It smells like you.”

A fierce blush paints itself across Derek’s cheeks and he crosses his arms and turns away from Stiles, looking downward. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

“It’s alright.” Stiles assures him. “But, uh, maybe, did you want to go shower? Change into something warmer?”

“Yes, okay,” Derek says to the ground.

“Upstairs, first door on the left. There should be towels in there.” Stiles watches Derek make his way up the winding staircase. “Clothes in the study across the hall,” he shouts up afterwards.

Stiles waits until he can hear running water, then lets himself whisper out a string of curse words, every single one that went unsaid since finding Derek on the road.

-

Stiles drains the negativity out of his body. Then he orders take away; all of Derek’s favourites, hoping something will spark a memory, because the longer Derek is without memories, the worse Stiles is going to feel. Selfish but true.

Derek descends the spiral staircase as Stiles is opening the door for the third and final delivery guy. He gestures to the table, where he’s moved the chairs back to and laid with plates and cutlery.

Derek looks unsure, but he’s sitting, hands folded on his lap, when Stiles comes over with the pizzas.

“Eat whatever you want.”

“You didn’t have to get me dinner, Stiles.”

Derek uses his name a lot more than he did before. It curls Stiles’ stomach up every time he hears it.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Since Derek doesn’t move, Stiles just piles some of everything onto both of their plates and then digs in, hoping to put Derek at ease.

Derek chews like he’s not sure what things are meant to taste like.

Stiles refrains from forcing Derek into his usual habits.

Derek uses a fork for the noodles, even though he’s always teasing Scott for his inability to use chopsticks.

Derek takes all the capsicum off his pizza, even though he’s normally the one eating the bits off Stiles’ plate.

Derek pushes aside the lemonade after one sip, and in his head Stiles shouts _it’s your favourite it’s your favourite it’s your favourite._

Derek seems to have been waiting for Stiles to be away from him before talking, because as soon as Stiles has returned from the kitchen and is seated on the sofa, Derek speaks up from where he’s remained at the table.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I ask… what did I do?”

Stiles sits up and cocks his head at Derek, wanting clarification on a question he doesn’t understand.

Derek’s not looking at him, gaze unfocused out the windows.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… why can’t I remember?”

Stiles sighs.

“Derek,” he starts, “firstly, you did not ‘do’ anything, okay? Whatever has happened is not your fault. No way.”

Derek turns to him, and Stiles can see him struggling to accept those words. He’s like an open book. One that Stiles has wanted to read before.

“I promise you’ll get your memories back. You’ve got friends who are researching it right now. I’m going to help them, and I’m a great researcher. You’ll remember soon.”

Derek ghosts Stiles a smile. Then he yawns.

It occurs to Stiles then that Derek is bone weary, deserving of sleep. That had been his plan. Food and a warm bed.

He doesn’t want to leave though. Feels like maybe if he does he’ll go out of his mind again, worry that he missed Derek so much he imagined him. Worry that Derek isn’t safe, that he’s out there still, and hurt and-

Stiles just wants to stay.

But he’s a stranger to Derek.

All Derek knows of Stiles right now is one conversation and a single photograph. Derek won’t want Stiles to stay.

He stands up, nods at Derek.

“I’ll let you get some rest. Be back tomorrow.”

“I thought-” Derek shakes his head. “Okay.”

In his head, Stiles walks over to Derek, takes him by the hand, pulls him to bed, surrounds him with blankets and then lays himself _downnexttoaround_ Derek.

In reality, he walks up to the loft door and grasps the handle. He can’t turn it, so he turns back.

Derek is circling his thumb around his palm.

Stiles bites his lip, warring internally.

“I can stay the night,” Stiles says. “If you’d like.”

Derek’s thumb stills and he looks up. Stiles reads the ‘yes’ in his face, but this Derek is different, and Stiles won’t force his presence here unless he gets verbal confirmation.

“Did you want me too?”

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“It wouldn’t be, Derek.”

Derek’s posture in unbelieving. Stiles is a little shocked himself. If Derek says yes, not only is he allowing Stiles to stay over with very little fuss, which is a marked difference from the handful of times earlier (and that was never Stiles alone anyway), he’s more realistically letting a stranger stay over.

Stiles steps away from the door, down to the bottom of the steps, close enough he can see Derek’s hopeful expression.

“To be honest,” frighteningly so, Stiles thinks, “I’d much prefer if I could stick around.”

“Okay.”

-

Stiles stretches out on the couch, while Derek takes his own bed.

Stiles told Derek he’d be fine sleeping on the couch, which is true, except that Stiles is doing everything but sleeping.

Derek, thankfully, is breathing slow and steady from behind the divider. He dropped off quickly, and with a goodnight and a thank you to Stiles that Stiles had accepted, trying not to show how upset he was by the obvious kindness.

It’s not the kindness that’s the issue because Derek _is_ kind, and Stiles knows that. It’s the fact that Derek isn’t hiding it behind layers of sarcasm, and monosyllabic words, and critique.

Stiles sighs and sits up, then he pushes off the blanket he’d fetched for himself—Derek had looked troubled as he did so—and makes his way over to the corner of the room where Derek is sleeping. He shouldn’t be loitering by him like this, like the underdeveloped love-interested in a teen novel, but he can’t help it. His eyes have been stuck on Derek all night, drinking in his presence. He’s alive and physically whole and Stiles just wants to see that constantly until his heart believes it.

Derek turns over onto his back and Stiles stiffens. Derek’s mouth is twisted down in an expression of pain, eyes tightly shut. As Stiles watches, Derek arches off the bed, muscles taught, and groans out.

Stiles hopes desperately that it’s a once off thing, a flash of dark in a nicer dreamscape. Then it happens again. Stiles can’t watch. He goes to Derek, whispers his name, tries to snap him out of his nightmares, aware that he’s probably reliving whatever has happened to him these past few days.

Derek doesn’t respond, other than to spasm on the bed again. Sweat paints his skin glossy in the moonlight. Sickly.

“Derek. Derek,” Stiles repeats, louder each time to no effect.

Stiles reaches out and wraps a palm around one of Derek’s bunched fists and it’s like he’s pressed a stop button.

Derek’s body relaxes, dropping down into the mattress with a heaviness that causes Stiles to tilt over so he’s leaning above Derek. He presses an arm out flat alongside Derek to keep himself upright.

Derek’s breath fans across his face, smelling minty like the toothpaste Stiles helped him locate in a drawer in the bathroom.

Up close—the closest Stiles has been to Derek since finding him—Stiles can see marks on his face of his time away. There are new lines dug into his forehead and around his eyes. What from, Stiles can only guess at. He’s not going to though, because Derek will be able to tell. Maybe not consciously, but he has his enhanced senses still, he’d feel Stiles’ worry like cotton wool down his throat for how thick and fast it could come on if Stiles let it start.

He won’t. For that, he’ll wait until he’s alone.

It’s not just the new lines on Derek’s face, it’s the pallor, which the moonlight is bringing out clearer than the afternoon sun earlier. Derek is meant to be tan, with skin darkened from his time outdoors, running, training, preferring to walk than use his car when he goes to the library. Derek is so pale tonight. He must have been indoors.

Stiles shakes his head and screws his eyes shut. He has to find something else to think about, because now he’s starting to worry, to think, and obsess, and fear about Derek stuck inside, claustrophobic and panicked, and what if his memory loss isn’t of his own doing, some kind of psychosomatic coping mechanism that Stiles has been thinking it might be. What if it was forced on him, maybe early on, and Derek has been alone and tortured and abused and not knowing any other way of being treated, and—

A hand wraps around Stiles’ arm and his eyes slam themselves open. He can hear himself gasping, the edge of a panic attack on the horizon.

Derek’s looking at him, concern writ clear on his face, his eyes, his eyes, thank god. Just the same as always. Stiles can feel himself calming just looking at them, and seeing the care in the greens and blues of Derek’s iris.

Derek starts moving his hand slowly, palm soft and gentle on Stiles’ arm. The up down giving Stiles another point to focus on. When Stiles sighs out, and relaxes his body—gone taught earlier in his panicked imagination—Derek presses more confidently.

Eventually, Stiles feels he has enough air in his lungs to talk. So he does.

“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” he stutters out, breath back but mind still scrambled at the edges.

“It’s alright.” Derek gives him reassurance with no strings.

Stiles swallows, missing the acerbic ‘shut up’ he would have received from Derek before this. The harsh words but the same meaning, if you knew how to read it.

“It’s alright,” Derek repeats.

He pulls Stiles down with the hand on his arm, and Stiles moves like he’s in a dream. He can almost see himself outside of this moment, watching as his body just complies with Derek, and he lifts his legs onto the bed, moves himself under the cover, and lies out on his back. If he could, he’d tell himself not to be so obvious, not to stare at Derek, to at least blink if he’s going to do it. Don’t be obvious. That’s what he’d say if he could.

He can’t. He just watches and feels himself lay there beside Derek, thinking, _why is he the one comforting me._

“Go to sleep,” Derek says. It’s almost an order, almost like the Derek Stiles knows.

It’s close enough that Stiles feels it like a command direct to his body. He closes his eyes, focusses on his breathing, feels the tingle in his arm as Derek starts to rub it again.

He sleeps.

-

Stiles wakes up. No.

Stiles opens his eyes. No.

Stiles pushes up through a haze of peace, and gradually, he becomes aware. He feels; sunlight on his right side, breeze over his body, and a fluttering sheet. He hears; running water, a car breaking outside. He smells; Derek.

Stiles opens his eyes. He’s slept longer than he has in days, longer than the past three nights combined. His body can feel it. He feels solid again, steady. He rolls over because he can, then stretches out, starfishes on the bed, enjoying the feeling before it comes back to him that there’s still more to be done.

Derek’s found, but at the same time… he’s not.

Stiles sits up.

Immediately, predictably, his eyes find Derek.

Derek’s at the table, watching him. Expression blank.

Stiles’ lead weight of a stomach sinks back into him. Derek’s face has been an open book since Stiles found him. Now, his expression is controlled.

“Derek? Do you-”

“I remember.”

Derek confirms Stiles’ suspicion.

Horrifyingly, Stiles can feel tears oncoming. His throat tightens and his eyes water, and yet he can’t look away from Derek despite how obvious that might be.

“How?” Stiles gets the word past his throat by force of will.

Derek blinks at Stiles. He stands up, walks over to the bedside cabinet, opens a draw. He throws a box of tissues onto the bed beside Stiles, then goes back to the table, leans back against it with legs stretched out.

He’s wearing fresh clothes, but they can’t hide the marks Stiles picked out last night.

“I don’t know,” Derek states eventually, once Stiles’ eyes have dropped off Derek to look in wonder at the box of tissues. The mark of Derek’s kindness like he’s come to expect. Hidden behind gruffness and silence.

It’s just more confirmation that Derek has his memories again.

“How long?” Stiles asks.

Derek looks out the window, to the street below. He looks and he looks and there’s nothing out there that should be holding his gaze for that long. No people to judge, or birds to track across the sky. It makes Stiles wonder why he’s doing it.

“How long?” Stiles asks again. His heart needs to know.

Derek turns back to Stiles. He stares, much like Stiles has been doing since yesterday—without stopping. Stiles’ throat feels tight again. His heart has jumped up there.

Derek stares and Stiles feels it.

Derek turns back to the window before he answers, and it’s with a reply that Stiles would not have guessed.

“When you woke me.”

 _When you woke me_ , Derek says.

 _When you woke me_.

And after Stiles woke him, Derek comforted him, soothed him, opened up his bed to Stiles.

Stiles’ hands clench into Derek’s sheets, a lifeline of continuity while his brain is adrift. Derek did all of that knowing Stiles, and knowing their history, and while having newly remembered whatever, whoever, happened to make him lose his memory.

It was an act more tender than Stiles would have thought this Derek capable of.

“Why did you…”

He stops. Maybe he shouldn’t know, doesn’t want to.

“You needed it,” Derek says simply, eyes fixed outside still.

Stiles frowns. “What did you need?”

Derek doesn’t answer, but turns to look at Stiles, expression rendered into one Stiles is familiar with.

“Last night, what did you need?” Stiles repeats.

Derek doesn’t say anything. Stiles thinks out loud.

“I touched you, and you just _stopped_. What did you need? Is that what you needed?”

“I don’t know what you’re asking,” Derek admits, eyes outside again.

“I’m asking… I don’t know Derek. I don’t know.” Stiles rubs his eyes. “What made you remember last night?”

Derek shrugs. It’s evasion and Stiles knows. He feels anger suddenly, all the anger he couldn’t show earlier, when Derek was lost and vulnerable, and Stiles didn’t want to scare him.

Stiles storms out of Derek’s bed and straight up to him, standing between him and the window.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know,” Derek says gruffly, firmly, but he’s looking around Stiles.

“You’re lying.”

Derek doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t confirm it either.

“You are. I’ve known you for years. You think I don’t know when you’re lying? I just spent hours with a you who _wasn’t you_. That was hard, and heartbreaking before that when I didn’t even know what was happening to you.” Stiles’ voice cracks, ugly. Derek flinches at it.

“I want to know. I—I _need_ to know, Derek. Tell me,” he says again, because he can’t say please. “Tell me, tell me right now.”

Derek remains silent, and Stiles has nothing more to say that won’t be hurtful to Derek, or to him; too revealing and too harsh.

“Derek—

“ _Don’t_ ,” Derek snaps. Then he levers off the table and moves around Stiles, careful not to touch.

Stiles can’t handle that. Last night, Derek touched him with tenderness and now today, he won’t even look at him.

He doesn’t say anything, all he can think of now is ‘fuck you’ and he won’t say it to Derek because he doesn’t know how true it will ring.

He leaves. Picks up his shoes, his jacket, doesn’t even stop to put them on. He doesn’t look over his shoulder to see how Derek’s reacting, but he’s sure he knows Stiles is leaving. He didn’t want to last night, but circumstances are different. Last night, he was something to Derek, and now he’s not.

Stiles’ blood is rushing, pounding loud in his head, so Derek moves without him hearing. His hands wraps too tight around Stiles’ wrist.

“What.” Stiles whips around, ready to release the lid on his anger again, and frustration that he’s spent days on Derek and now Derek won’t give him the morning.

Derek’s face stops him short. It’s, it’s… like it was last night.

“What,” Stiles says again, painfully needy.

“Stiles.” It’s one of the few times Derek has said his name without intent behind it. No aggravation, or command, or anger. Just his name. Just Stiles.

“I’m going to tell you,” Derek says. “I just… need time.”

He doesn’t say ‘stay’. He doesn’t need to.

-

Stiles stays. Puts down his jacket, and his shoes, and goes to sit on the table, watching Derek as he stands and stares out the window.

It’s silent inside the loft, and not much better outside.

Derek’s holding his arms defensively across his chest, and Stiles finds himself mimicking the gesture. He counts in his head to pass the time, something he’s picked up in the last few days, just trying to get through. When the big picture gets too much he shuts his eyes, and thinks hard— _one, two, three, four, five_ —until he’s calmer.

He does it now, eyes shut. _One, two, three…_

Through his counting, the sound of Derek’s breathing comes into focus, steady but shallow. Stiles syncs his own up almost unconsciously. He hears when Derek moves as well, a scrape of feet against the floor, and then the creak of the wooden table as he leans on it. Stiles feels Derek’s body heat along his right side.

He opens his eyes and turns to Derek. Derek has obviously been staring at him, and now he looks away quickly. His arms drop down to his sides, curling around the edge of the table. The first in a series of moves that Stiles waits silently through, until eventually, Derek speaks.

“I was dreaming, last night. Not remembering.”

That’s one worry off Stiles’ list at least.

“Nightmare,” Derek adds, but that’s nothing new. They all have nightmares, even talk about them, sometimes. There is relief to be found when the same events and creatures occur across multiple pack member’s night time thoughts.

“And when I touched you…” Stiles starts, trying to lead this time, and not demand the confession from Derek.

“You were right. I… I needed it.” Derek whispers it out, like his needs aren’t worth the proper air to make a statement.

Stiles’ hand jerks, wanting to reach for Derek’s. He doesn’t, because he worries Derek will think it’s a pitying gesture, offered not because Stiles wants to, but because Derek admitted he wanted it. Derek wouldn’t want to be owed that measure of comfort.

“You’re pack,” Derek states simply, but still more air than voice. “You’re… safe.”

Stiles hums in acknowledgement, and nods, taking Derek’s hard-fought admission.

“You think you just needed to feel that? Pack? For the… whatever it is to break, to get your memories back?”

“Could be. Yes,” Derek says, stronger now that they’re into more theoretical grounds, and not so focussed on Derek’s personal feelings.

Derek’s hands unclench from the table, and he brings them to rest lightly on his thighs instead. Stiles watches the fingers stretch out across Derek’s lap.

“Why last night?” Stiles lifts his head back up, looks to Derek “Why not any of the times before then?”

Derek’s eyebrows draw down. “What times.”

“I mean, why not any of the other times I touched you?”

“Did you not realise—” Derek starts, then turns away with his lips pressing together. Back to staring out the window. His fingers clench into fists.

“Realise what?” Stiles has to ask.

“That was the first time,” Derek says, not looking at Stiles. “Since you found me. That was the first time you touched me.”

Stiles tilts his head. “No,” he refuses immediately, knee-jerk. “There was…”

There wasn’t. Thinking back, Stiles has consciously been avoiding that, for his sake and Derek’s. Afraid of what a simple touch would reveal about his own feelings. Whether a touch might spark Derek’s flight or fight response.

Stiles pushes out air, curling his body down in a slump.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“For what?”

“That I didn’t touch you sooner. Maybe you wouldn’t have spent last night so—”

“Stop it,” Derek demands sharply, turning to Stiles.

Stiles startles at the tone, and looks up with wide eyes to Derek.

“You found me, Stiles.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Stiles,” Derek half growls.

Stiles snaps his mouth shut, staring at Derek, whose gaze remains steady on Stiles’ face, possibly waiting for him to open his mouth and try to talk again.

Stiles brings a hand up subconsciously to tug at his shirt sleeve. He can see Derek tracking the movement, but he doesn’t let go.

“I just feel bad about it,” Stiles whispers. “I know it’s not my fault,” Stiles prays that doesn’t register as a lie. “I just… feel bad.”

A lot of what has been said this morning has been on a whisper. Fragile, for confessions of such importance, which Stiles feels they are for both him and Derek. Maybe it’s the quiet from outside. Maybe it’s fear. For months, Stiles has feared Derek finding out how much he wants him. It doesn’t seem as big a concern in the light of the past night.

His new fear; Stiles doesn’t want Derek to disappear again. Whether behind a fog of forgetfulness and possibly supernatural amnesia, or emotionally like the years when Derek and Stiles were first learning how to align themselves within the pack, and beside each other. They didn’t work right away, nor did they align their differences as quick as, say, Derek and Scott.

Stiles and Derek. Both too sarcastic for regular conversation, too prickly to admit to concern, too stubborn to back down. Where the similarities ran out, enough differences to be a matter of complication, not interest. Stiles, with his research and plans, no matter how full of holes and unaccountable factors. Derek, with his werewolf healing and a desperation to save people as soon as the opportunity arose.

Too much fighting to hide too much feeling. At least, that’s what it became for Stiles. Anger the only thing strong enough to hide what was fast becoming love.

Not all the time. Too much effort to quash that much feeling all the time. It must have bled out. Derek never said anything about it though, never mentioned, never seemed to change how he was around Stiles.

That was all early days though. By the time Stiles was admitting to himself that he’d fallen—irrevocably for the time being—he and Derek had a rhythm. Understood where each’s preference for sarcasm came from, fell often on the same side in pack arguments, found comfort in being able to confront someone with similar obstinateness to oneself.

There’s something hovering between them though. Something new. Something that last night has caused. Was it Stiles’ touch? Is it something Derek revealed when he didn’t have his memories?

Derek knew about their history as he offered to share his bed.

Derek remembers.

Stiles wars with himself. Wanting to let his mind rest at ease, knowing the answer for certain so he doesn’t have to worry and imagine scenarios probably—hopefully—worse than what they were. But ignorance is bliss, something Stiles knows down to his bones in his post-werewolf reveal world. Does he _want_ to have answers to the dreadful questions that he’s been pushing away when they float too close to consciousness, right now, and last night. If he does ask, then Derek is going to relive whatever he went through. That thought halts Stiles. He can’t put Derek through anything like that so soon. Answers will wait, and screw the pack on this if they try and force them out of Derek. Stiles will stand there between them.

If Derek wants to talk though, Stiles would listen.

Stiles wants to know what it is he senses between him and Derek, how Derek sees their relationship, as maybe has been made apparent to him. Stiles has sensed, perhaps all in his head—how horrible that would be, but not the first time for Stiles—their relationship evolving. Maybe Derek needed an epiphany.

Stiles is aware he is being selfish right now, focussing on what it means for him, that Derek’s memories were brought back by him. Derek mentioned pack, not Stiles specifically. Stiles is probably taking everything too far.

He stands up, walks over to Derek’s bed, starts remaking it for something to do. He straightens up the sheet, tucks the corner in at one end, where he’d tugged it out last night. Refolds the blanket up so the edge lines up with the stripes. Fluffs the pillows.

“You don’t have to do that,” Derek says from right behind him, and much too close.

Stiles whips around, heart pounding frantic, and surely loud to Derek’s ears.

He takes a step back, and his calves end up pressed against the mattress. Derek flicks his eyes down there, evaluating, then takes his own step back. Stiles sinks down onto the mattress— _one, two, three, four_ —measuring his breaths to calm his heart.

Derek stands awkwardly in front of him, hands limp by his side, waiting. When Stiles’ heartrate is back to normal, Derek catches his gaze.

“Can I?” He gestures beside Stiles.

Stiles nods. “Your bed.”

Derek sits, leaving a foot at least between them. Stiles looks him over. He looks much better now, well rested, showered, shaved. Stiles bites his lip, knowing his fondness and relief is probably coming through to Derek.

They sit in silence, Stiles feeling drowsy in the warmth of the apartment, sun streaming into the room, filling it with brightness and shimmering air.

“Stiles, I—” Derek cuts off before ever really starting.

This is the moment where Stiles either asks him to keep going, or stops him, possibly saving both their sanity.

In the moment, he can’t decide which he wants. It’s always been a mix for him, whether to run or fight back. He doesn’t have a standard to fall back on, and he knows with Derek… It used to be stand and fight, but now he has a better sense of self-worth, carefully helped along by the pack, and by therapy. Stiles knows dealing with emotions is still awkward—for him too. That thought helps him think. If he was in Derek’s shoes, he knows what he’d want. He hopes he’s making the right call.

He moves in closer to Derek, and reaches for his hand. Derek looks to Stiles, surprised, but Stiles keep his face carefully controlled. Not much he can do for his heartbeat, or what chemo signals he’s giving out, but he tries to convey certainty, calm, support.

Derek looks down at their hands, and the worry lines on his forehead even out.

He twists his hand so they’re palm to palm, and curves his fingers in between Stiles’

“It wasn’t about being pack,” Derek states. Softly, but not whispered. “It was about being you.”

Stiles doesn’t understand.

He hears the words, and they travel to his brain, and then they hit a roadblock.

“What?” Stiles hears himself ask.

“I needed my anchor to bring me back,” Derek explains. Simple. Straightforward. Still just words to Stiles.

Stiles shakes his head in big, slow moves from side to side. He goes to lean away from Derek. He’d moved himself closer but now he thinks he wants space. He thinks. He doesn’t know. He can’t—

Derek’s hand squeezes his, firm and unyielding, and _there_ —something to focus on.

Stiles looks down at their hands, only now realising something strange about it.

“We’ve never done that before,” he states dumbly, opening out his fingers. Derek’s remain locked around his palm.

“I didn’t let us.”

Stiles looks up to Derek. It’s a weird and unpleasant déjà vu when he sees that open expression of last night. He can almost read exactly what Derek is feeling between that and his quivering hand.

“I’ve wanted to for months.” The confession drops like a penny—light and quick, but with a resounding _thunk_ that echoes through Stiles’ head.

“How have I… could I not have…” Stiles speaks in broken phrases, half-finished thoughts.

“I hid it well.”

Stiles can only nod, because it’s true.

Stiles thought it was one sided. Stiles thought Derek only saw him as a friend. Stiles thought he had to feel guilty, and sad.

Now, he knows he doesn’t, and it’s aggravating. So much time—‘I’ve wanted to for months’, Derek said—not being together when they could have been. Frustration and guilt and yes, moments of happiness too. Stiles has been a big mess of feelings, trying to hide them away at any given time and Derek… did he really not know that Stiles had a tremendous depth of feeling for him? More than just a friend should.

Did he not know? Or did he ignore? Was it self-sabotage, like…

He’s doing it now. Stiles is sabotaging himself right now. Derek confessed to him and he’s trying to pull away.

Just like that, the mental block disintegrates, and Stiles’ lungs expand with a shocked gasp of air. He looks to Derek, wide-eyed, gripping Derek’s hand tightly.

Stiles’ revelations rush out, looking for confirmation before he throws himself into what this could be. “The hand holding, the anchor, last night with your memories. Why? What does it mean for you?”

“It means.” Derek stops—looks down at their hands and rubs his thumb over the back of Stiles’ hand.

Stiles’ attention is so focussed in on Derek. Derek’s on him. Neither of them hear the slamming door from the tenant below.

“It means I like you.” Derek’s head lifts back up, his eyes as clear as topaz, and expression softening his face. “As a friend, but also as more.”

Stiles nods slowly, hand squeezing Derek’s even more and involuntarily.

“I feel the same.”

With his confession, Stiles’ body eases, dropping tension he hadn’t been aware of while focussed on Derek. He smiles. He beams, even, and Derek huffs out a laugh, probably thinking Stiles is too overeager. He doesn’t care.

“I want to date you, Stiles,” Derek says leaning in to him.

Stiles’ body heats and he leans in toward Derek too, bringing their faces so close that he can see each gradient in Derek’s iris, and his gaze slips into and out of focus, clarity difficult at close range.

“Derek,” Stiles whispers.

He realises his palm is sweaty and that Derek’s is shaking, vibrating with tension. They’re both holding so still, though it would be simple to tilt, go with the gravity Derek’s body seems to be exerting on him. Let his lips press soft and gentle into Derek’s skin. His cheek, his jaw, his eyelid, his lips. Wherever they land when Stiles lets himself go.

“I want to date you too.”

Derek nods, then leans his forehead in to rest against Stiles’. He shuts his eyes, and Stiles shuts his too. With his eyes shut, he lifts his free hand up to Derek’s face, gently pressing just the pads of his fingers into his cheek, feeling the warmth there, the life, the bristle of stubble. Derek’s own hand lands on his thigh and settles, big and heavy and comforting.

Stiles sighs out, feeling bigger than his body. Slowly, like caught in a trance and lulled into drowsiness by the sun streaming into the loft, Stiles tilts his head. With his eyes still closed, his nose bumps into Derek’s. He tilts his head further and slips to the side. His thumb drops down to find Derek’s lips, smooth and full. He presses his mouth down where his thumb is, then moves it gently from beneath them so his lips are pressing against Derek’s.

Stillness for a moment, as neither moves.

Derek’s hand on Stiles’ thigh creeps upwards, and Stiles parts his lips slightly until Derek’s bottom lip pops in between his own. That’s all he needs for now, to know that they can slot together like this.

He pulls back and at last opens his eyes. Derek’s looking at him with a fondness Stiles has never been able to pick in his gaze before. He likes seeing it now. He wouldn’t mind seeing it for a long time to come.

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted to [tumblr](http://whatthehellisahoechlin.tumblr.com/tagged/my+fic)


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